An Everlasting Shelter
by LuvEwan
Summary: While on a specific mission, Obi-Wan is given time to reflect on his past, and the unlikely possession that ensures his future. TWO completed vignettes.
1. An Everlasting Shelter

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An Everlasting Shelter

PG-13

In response to the Obi-Wan Character Workshop, established by the wonderful obi_ew and red_rose_knight!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Summary: While on a specific mission, Obi-Wan is given time to reflect his past, and the unlikely possession that ensures his future. A completed vignette.

By LuvEwan

(_) - (_) - (_)

I suppose outsiders would imagine it to be a composition of bleeding, intense color, a melting meld of scarlet sweating into burnt orange and covered in a moist saffron sheen, all buzzing and restless in the agony of noontime, chasing the locals toward any remnant of shade. 

And yes, as I walk along the dusty path, I guess such a prediction would be at least marginally accurate. For there _are_ such hues drenching the Tatooine landscape, though not so deep and visibly sweltering. The sky has tinges of red and mandarin, streaking from the two suns, identical as though one is but a reflection cast by the other, radiating heat and pale, glowing circles of yellow. But the sky itself is a stretched canopy of almost powdered blue, without a single wisp of cloud-white to permeate the purity. 

The inhabitants don't cower in the pools of shadow provided by the shop roofs, or most of them don't. They lumber down the dirt-flecked lane, wrapped in layers of tattered scarf and thick, wormy tunic. I've lived a good many years here ( though I'll never come to think of it as my home) and during that time I've seen only a small number of unmasked faces. Usually, noses and mouths, or whatever the alien equivalents may be, are concealed behind bands of brown and tan, protecting them from the threat of heat. 

But eyes are never hidden. They peek out from the mounds of fabric, green or chestnut or glistening, coal black. 

So I don't know the majority of the life forms that shoulder past me, going along in their dry stream of anonymity. Yet that which is most telling of the soul is exposed, slanting in the glare or blinking rapidly in a swirl of dust, or staring dully ahead. I think that sometimes, perhaps sometimes I recognize a crystal gaze, a set of faded jade eyes.

I _would_ reach along the Force, with a transparent, faint touch, to confirm such suspicions. 

But, if I must be a lonely, old man, I refuse to be a lonely, desperate old man, trying to cling to some pathetic fray of familiarity. Especially among those that are, in the end, just strangers. 

A gust of wind picks up, and I thread my hands in my sleeves, feeling a little naked despite the folds of tunic and leggings. A ruddy brown cloak is slung over my forearm, held close to my chest, whipping in the sandblasted breeze. 

I've never worn anything to shroud my face, even during the height of storms and blistering temperature. I knew a few who used to say, some jokingly, some not, that I'm too enamored of my own countenance to camouflage it. I respond now as I would then, with a knowing smirk.

The Order taught with rigor the idea that physical appearances were misleading, and above all, trivial. I followed that with almost total precision…I employ 'almost' because there are few in the Universe that can have their basic sensual instincts drilled out of them. I'm under no illusions, and never was, in that respect. My blood isn't cold--yet. I wasn't above sneaking a lustful glance or two. Hell, most of the time, my bashful adolescent efforts were rewarded with a reciprocating look from long-lashed eyes, maybe even a smile. I wouldn't be surprised if half the Jedi populace was aware of the furious fluttering in my chest afterward. I've been told (more often than not by a man of towering form and character) that no matter the strength of my mental shielding, some things just demanded projection, for innocent thoughts of infatuation, 'young love' with a wistful sigh, were a welcome change from the darker musings of those who wielded the Force. As I matured, I tried with increasing fervor to control such basely human impulses, but ultimately, I lost that battle. There'll always be a bit of a romantic in me, beating somewhere in the corridors of my heart, thriving among the cobwebs. 

Which doesn't mean that I think very much of my chin, with its dimple (less enhanced now with help from a quickly silvering beard), my nose, strangely shaped, my eyes nestled in sockets too prominent at the bottom, the permanent crease between my brows. Whenever I dare glimpse at a mirror, I still see what I did twenty, thirty years ago: a boy masquerading as a man, surfacing in the slightly round cheeks and wide forehead, never settling into memory. 

A hood provides sufficient shielding of those features. Tucking the cowl around my head, I can burrow deep into obscurity, so that no one notices the moisture that seeps maddeningly into my eyes, stinging as harshly as eddies lifted from the dunes. 

I wonder if he ever--oh gods and there goes the wet prickling, from the whites to the irises-- if he ever needed to pull up that hood, to gain some sort of a haven from his surroundings, from the eyes darting out from the piled, coarse material. 

Suddenly I wish I could, for my hair is lashed this way and that and another, loose and free, exposed as my damp eyes are. 

I remember…hm…I can remember hurrying towards shelter, a youth scampering at my side, giggling at our haste instead of focusing. And I did my best to maintain my stoicism (I produced a mental image of what I thought HE would do in the situation) but soon found myself in a heap on the building's floor, laughing so hard my ribs were sore, the child in similar hysterics. That day, the droplets fell from my eyes, but they were bright, I think, and the boy drew my hood down.

What he said then, I can recall with startling, unerring accuracy, the soft tone of youth and its sweet honesty and inhibition: _"You shouldn't do that so much, Master."_

I half-frowned, half-smiled with curiosity. _"Why?"_

Eyes looked up at me, beautiful azure rimmed with midnight, eyes that never should've been buried under layers, let alone a shining, murky black façade. _"Because it's so much harder to see you that way._"

Well, there's a contradiction to my previous statement. I _do_ conceal my face, after all. 

But not today. My complexion, beginning to show more lines, as well as the bronzed effect of the twin suns (another pair of eyes?) is open to the atmosphere, to all that scurry by.

I finger my robe absently, remind myself it isn't too far longer.

A small fight erupts at a merchant's crumbled stand, strong Huttese curses rising shrilly over the drought-dry wind, trinkets tumbling from their precarious balance on the display tables. A woman, bundled in the normal, bland Tatooine garb, runs forward, her jaw going horribly slack as she watches the humble fruits of her labor meet the unforgiving ground. Bits scatter like electric spray from a saber, bouncing and skittering in a shower of distress and heartbreak.

I can feel the tension clutching at her, the fear and the dread, the fact that she already knows the length of destruction done, but is holding to a false hope that her work was not done in vain…

Very subtly, with barely a flicker of my coarsened fingers, I save but a few of the ornaments, tipping them back so that they only teeter on the edge.

The skirmish is over now, quick like a bolt. 

But no…It's not quite over, is it? She's still huddled around the remains, twists of braided hair falling in her face, shatters of what she had so carefully and lovingly crafted dead in her creased palms. 

I send a pulse of comfort, a gentle current of soothing Force. 

Then I move again, walk forward, take another step, wanting to pull the cloak around me, so I can disappear into it.

But it stays over my arm, a cold weight, almost morbid in its lifeless limpness. 

Undoubtedly she will stand from the mess, dust the granules from her aching knees. Perhaps she may even attempt to rebuild, grasp the delicate brush and take a stroke.

Yet it will be a bitter consolation, won't it? Because it can never be the same, can never so much as resemble those which were lost. 

I hope there's a warm place for her to go then, when she realizes it. A cradle of a bed, or a lofty, beaten chair…a worn robe, with billowing sleeves.

Did I say it wasn't too much longer?

The heat's beginning to burn my head, the strands of auburn streaked with gray, autumn shadowed by winter. 

And ah yes doesn't frost seem appealing, as I tread the desert, stalked by simmering suns.

If I could only meet the softness of a snow bank, I would do so with bare feet, break the smooth, ivory surface with my toes, sink in. It _would_ be cold, at first. Frigid and icy, chapping my face and biting at my skin.

But then…then I could huddle in my cloak, the hood cupping my head tenderly, and the freeze would dissipate, the warmth flooding in.

I shouldn't continue that, what with this damn mist in my eyes. 

I forge ahead, the dunes a distant backdrop. At least it never rains here…I think that if it did, a trickle would turn into a rush, and the place would drown. 

Hm. Listen to me. I sound--well, I sound like someone I used to know. But he died long ago, as surely as the man with the regal mane and broken nose did. Side by side, two souls 'dearly departed'. But one body stayed, mind somewhat stalled by the shock…still coherent enough to walk back into the hangar's gleaming, dull opening, and claim the cloak, left in a heap. Someone who would have mused with just a hint of child-like ridiculousness, who read when he had the chance and remembered the words, etching them into his mind beside those engraved by…others.

I've come to the door. It's caked at the sides by mahogany-colored dirt, but after awhile, one becomes accustomed to it, until the grime of Tatooine is akin to the sleek décor of Coruscant--or wherever one would choose to engage as any example. I only say Coruscant because it's the first world that appeared in my thoughts. There are others of rivaling grandeur, I know. I've been to many of them.

But the dirt is a fixture of this planet, as steel is to another. 

I knock quietly, and a voice answers, hoarse from years, yet laced with a femininity that I'm privately grateful for. 

"Come in!"

Holding tighter to my cloak, I enter the small, amber-shadowed room. 

Tirrah is seated in the corner, head propped against the dingy wall, a needle between two expertly bent fingers. Her hair is shorn to her shoulders (from the jagged line, I can surmise it was her own doing), and pure cinnamon. She is around my age, so the untainted color is surprising. Though, a grinning youth, edging toward adulthood, once informed me that my favorite habit was giving me premature gray--that habit, of course, being frowning. So perhaps it is _my_ hair that is unusual.

__

She isn't frowning. Her smile is genuine, with pale pink lips and dim, off-white teeth. Her eyes are two obsidian jewels, deeply set and coated in glossy ink. Lines web the tanned skin around them, and the mouth as well, snaking out from the tips.

Sitting in her threadbare chair, she's small, her short legs crossed. I have yet to ascertain what figure she may have, whatever curves or enticing qualities possessed are smothered in gray and brown. 

But when I come to stand in the center of the musty shop, I don't care. She's breathing, she's smiling.

And I smile, too, though not as easily as she. "Good afternoon, Tirrah."

Her expression broadens. She sets her current project aside, atop several others. "Ben, it's been awhile." Striding forward with those slight legs, she touches my arm. "It's good to see you."

I look down at her upturned face, so exposed and unimpeded, feel the familiar material of my cloak in my hand. 

If Tirrah notices the clothing, she doesn't mention it. "So, what'll it be today? A couple sultry kisses behind the desk? I'll put up the 'closed' sign." 

I laugh with a closed mouth. In the past, a plethora of smart, teasing comments would be at my lips, ready to offer a few chuckles. 

Today, I can hear them, faded in the backdrop of my former mind, but I…can't. "No. I'm afraid I'll be forced to resist." I hold up the robe.

She flushes with a good-natured smile and snaps her work-worn fingers. "Rats. Ah well, I'd just have to mend everything I tore off anyway." 

I can't help but laugh heartily at that, handing her the battered cape. 

"Alright." Tirrah holds it up, surveying the damage. Then her mouth gapes, her black eyes going wide.

I anticipated such a response, and I long for that robe she now has on flagrant exhibition. 

"_Ben,_ what happened?" Authentic concern lifts her voice above its normal octave. A tear is slashed diagonal across the robe's back, thin but long. Another disjoints a sleeve. 

I don't answer immediately, and she fixes her gaze on me, waiting.

I quirk my lips to the side with a sigh. "I do wish you wouldn't look at me like that, Tirrah." That's partially correct. For although it's pleasant to have someone, anyone, worry for you, it's uncomfortable as well. They can't accept general excuses. They need to…They need to know more than I'm willing to provide. 

Tirrah returns to her chair, spreading the cloak against her thighs, still taking it in. "What could have possibly made _this_ big of a rip?"

I spot a chair among the stacks of folded material, and sit wearily down. "I caught it on a door handle."

Her brow arches in cynicism. "A door handle?"

I nod. "Yes." And how absurd my accent sounds, clipped and cultured, when telling such an enormous lie. 

She runs her hand along the lacerations. "And you caught the sleeve too?"

"Yes."

Thankfully, _I'm_ not caught. Slowly, with palpable reluctance, she lowers her head, and reaches for her sewing tools. 

I relax against the chair's back, closing my eyes. 

And the true cause of the robe's injuries leaps into my vision, eradicating the smooth dark echo of oblivion that paints my inner lids.

Specters, with their haunting names and painful memories, crowd my thoughts, pierce that section of my spirit that simply cannot retreat into the safe recesses.

Those that relied on me, who leaned on my strength--and came to plummet due to my own weaknesses, my own collapse.

My lungs bind and my throat constricts around a lump. 

Is it today, or is it a yesterday of years before?

It doesn't matter, really. Blade sharp or blunt, it still hurts. And I still fight, even in the midst of sleep, my hands clawing at ghosts--at myself, waking to the sharp sound of shredding cloth.

"Stars, this thing is remarkable!" Tirrah announces breathlessly.

My eyes open to fresh moisture and I bat it away. "How so?"

She shakes her head, stirring the clean, chestnut curtain of hair. "It just mends so well. You can't…" She shakes her head once more, "You can't even tell the tears were ever there."

I smile at Tirrah, to humor her and out of affection more than agreement. 

Initially, the deep brown fabric appears flawless, as though it were newly purchased, with the stiff smell of the shop still carried in the fibers. 

But it isn't new, it doesn't have that scent.

On the contrary, the robe is considerably aged, with an aroma reminiscent of rich spice mixed with the light fragrance of the sea. 

I like to think so, anyway, when the suns set, and I'm alone in a dusty room.

And, if you focus keenly, you can see countless marks where it was stitched, fused together again after numerous fractures.

But only if you're looking closely.

Few ever do.

Which, of course, doesn't mean the scars aren't there.

"I bet this would sell like crazy somewhere well-to-do." She caresses it fondly. "Where'd you get it?"

I shrug with a trace of a smile. "Just a hand-me-down. I have no idea."

"Oh." Visibly disappointed, but still in marvel, she begins on the sleeve.

And leaves an old man to his thoughts. 

In truth, I have an exact idea where the robe originated. According to--my Master, he bought it while on a mission involving the planet M'Rheu V. Soon after he trashed his old, spent version in favor of the recent find, he was captured and spent an agonizing month in captivity. 

When the ordeal was over, all that was left of the illegal commune and its contents was Qui-Gon Jinn.

And his cloak. 

That was during his early Knighthood, and he wore the tenacious robe for about two decades before deciding to replace it.

Instead of doing away with the trusted article, he gave it to me.

We weren't at the Temple then, not even on Coruscant. At some shabby hotel, during a snowy, heavy-duty gale, the night before the beginning of what was to be a trying assignment, he pulled the robe from his rucksack and smoothed out the wrinkles with one callused, wide hand.

I was skimming over a data pad, my braid dangling against my chest, its length indicating my age.

Of twenty years, I am absolutely certain.

He cleared his throat, and I looked up.

I was quite familiar with the piece of clothing, and instantly recognized it had somehow shortened since the last time I saw it. _"Yes, Master?" _

He glanced up at me, with eyes that defied all limits of luminosity, that transcended description. I can only say that they were an ever-shifting blue, sapphire then azure, always gleaming with wisdom. _"Today marks quite a bittersweet occasion for me, Padawan."_

I swung my legs to the side of my sleepcouch, forgetting my studies in an instant. It didn't occur to me to speak, to further prod him. I simply regarded that craggy, leonine face with a cross between concern and wonder. 

He walked around the foot of his bed, the window behind his broad shoulder a rolling gray sky, with a steady stream of flakes falling to land on a luxurious cascade of milky white snow, the sound of his steps eclipsed by the whistling wind. He sat opposite me, arms resting on his knees, the robe held between them. _"You see, a few days ago, the thought came to me that I've outgrown something. Perhaps I've indulged in one too many sweetberry tarts, because this, _" And he swayed it a little to indicate his subject, "_Is just ill-fitting now."_

I listened to his speech with my hands braced against the mattress, eyes trained on his. I understood what he was getting at, but I tried to muddle that comprehension, so that when I was wrong it wouldn't sting quite as badly. I think I've always been at least mildly reasonable--or prepared for the worst, because by the time the words left his mouth, I had already convinced myself I was foolish to even think--

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"But, looking at you…" He held the cloak's shoulders briefly against mine. _"I think it would fit YOU perfectly._"

And, to my amazement, he looped my arms through the sleeves, gathering the two parts to my chest until the cream pajama top beneath was covered. Then he stood back, smiling, a fragile twinkle in his eye. _"There. That suits you far better."_

At that moment, it didn't matter that I was a senior apprentice, considered in most circles to be an adult, with a light bristling of stubble on my face. I curled my fingers around the wide sleeve openings, and was an initiate whose allowed to try on a pristine, official uniform for the first time, and in unison feels two and ten feet tall, is a tiny child and a veritable grown-up. _"Master…"_ I might've said, but I can't be sure, for my mind was numb by then. 

This wasn't just a Master's robe. It was _my_ Master's robe. 

And yet--it was mine.

He brought his arms against his stalwart chest. _"And the measurements were spot on, too._" He commented, mostly to himself, in a murmur.

I nodded, though his words had been but a faint garble to my ears. A cold tingle spread throughout my body then, shivery and wonderful, as my awe fell from a restless, all-encompassing sensation to a coil within my stomach. 

In the years to come, it would not be so pronounced. But, each time I reached for the gift, I would remember anew that the feeling could never be dormant. Even after grinding years of isolation, with sandy debris rough against raw skin and the only measurable moisture falling from eyes, it is still a source of irrevocable pride for me. 

And I would not mar his memory, nor risk my own sanity, by tucking it from sight, during those flashes of furious grief and self-loathing, when the cloak is no longer my refuge, but a reminder of my eternal incompetence. Perhaps it is because I want to believe he would want me to wear it--or, more likely, because it's as integral a part of me as my heart.

That must be the reason that now, while waiting for Tirrah to finish her task, I can scarcely detect a palpitation. 

Eventually, I broke from my stupor, to adhere two bewildered eyes to the man. "_…Why?"_

I probably sounded like a half-drowned kitling, because he took my hand, which crumpled instantly in his, rubbing it with gentle continuity using the pads of his fingers. A smile played across his whiskered mouth, and for a few seconds he didn't speak, the wind a mere undertone beside his soft breaths. Then he wet his lips. _"I've told you about that mission to M'Rheu V, the time I spent in chains, cut off from the Force."_

I nodded, and it was the sole section of my body that _could_ move. Everything else was frozen, the hand cradled in the large palm motionless. 

__

"When I bought this," He slid his free fingers down the robe's arm, down my arm. _"I knew it was unique, to be treasured. And when I was captured, when all that I knew was taken, I promised myself I would hold onto that robe. As long as I could at least see it, as long as it was within my grasp, so was freedom._" In his eyes, I could see shreds of that dark period, dismal hours of back-breaking labor, pain and desolation. My paralysis was lifted, so that I could grip his hand, to give what comfort I could.

He acknowledged the gesture with a smile. _"It might be difficult to understand, but the fact that the robe had survived long enough for me to make such a promise was…was proof that maybe I could survive the ordeal. I woke every day to gray, cracked slate and unspeakable evil, things so…despicable they're like bile in your throat, but I didn't focus on that. I focused on my cloak. They didn't take it from me…They didn't take it, although they took my tunics and boots and belt._

"When it was over, and I had escaped and returned to the Temple, I looked little more than a dirty vagrant. But the robe was slung over my shoulders. It was ripped, torn, stained…Yet I didn't throw it away, and discovered that it mended well.

"And I knew that it had saved me. That it had the potential to save me from anything, since it withstood the hell of that prison. So before I began each assignment, I made that promise, sometimes without consciously thinking of it, and each time, I've returned, with the same cloak."

I swallowed with a dense click, tears in my eyes like two glass shards. 

He reached out to wipe them away with a thumb. "_I say that I've outgrown it now, and that's inarguable. I have. I've come to the point in life where…my own survival is not so paramount."_ He stopped, to gather a tendril of air, his voice growing husky. _"I want you to wear this, my Padawan, Obi-Wan, and pledge to me, promise to yourself and to me, that you'll keep it close, as I did."_

There were cool rivulets coursing down my face by then, I fluttered my lashes to try to see through the quivering joy. 

He carded a hand through my hair. _"I never want you to forfeit, to anything, my apprentice. I want you to come back from every hardship and sew the wounds…I never want you to fall apart. Never."_

And I was in his embrace, in the warm, soft curvature between his neck and shoulder, arms wrapped tight around him. 

He clasped the back of my head, the tip of the hood brushing against it. 

My eyes were squeezed shut, my lips tautly compressed, to withhold the sob building in my chest. There is a dizzying euphoria, when one has created a dreamscape, and later is told that at least components of that world are true, vibrant and beautiful bits that cross from hope to reality. 

Then, after a silent series of minutes, he drew back, drying the tears that had dripped down to my trembling jaw line. _"You must promise me this, Padawan. You must say it."_

I stared openly at his face, from half-lidded and red-washed eyes. _"I promise, Master._" And it was a tacit knowledge between us, that the last word had been a substitute for what was heard in both our minds.

__

I promise, Father.

That night I slept in the cloak, for what little time I actually spent unconscious. Mostly I was awake, watching the snow drift and drizzle, warm in the sleeves and hood, warm in the remembrance of the evening. 

Often afterwards I would seek the solace of that robe, when I was separated from my Master, due either from outside forces or the lingering insecurities he harbored. The roomy cloth could be his arms, around mine, solid evidence that despite our difficulties he cared for me. 

Our lives were interwoven, as teacher and student, as two souls preserved by the same garment, by that venerable pledge. 

Yes, it certainly was a hand-me-down. I chuckle to myself, bringing a finger up to catch the sudden bead from my eye.

I can never know if _he _knew, that terrible day in the Theed palace, why I so instinctively dropped my robe alongside his. 

I meant to die for him, because no matter how loved I was by him, I would always love him to a painful degree, well beyond the value I held in my existence. 'My own survival' could never be as 'paramount' as his…

But it was his last lesson, his final correction of me. I was his Padawan, well after the body was cooling, and a Padawan was _never_ to lie to his Master.

It took a while for me to accept that, as I sat in my gnawing loneliness with Anakin somewhere nearby, the cloak cold and drawn around me. 

I _was_ his Padawan. I had made two promises to him--I had to fulfill them.

So I trained Anakin (and Tirrah must think I'm going senile, wiping at my eyes again, so soon, in the quiet). And I've worn that robe.

It's rescued me, and I've in turn rescued it, from an ashen battlefield or hospital, from grateful royalty who insisted I replace it with their sterling, velvet-lined version. 

When my second promise was shriveled, when I couldn't recover that, I walked over, to pull the robe from the molten pool.

My hand's still burned, as is my Master's cloak. You can see those scars more clearly.

Tirrah shakes me from my reverie, her small, skilled hands at my shoulder. "You looked dazed, Kenobi. Do I bore you _that_ much?"

I smile, rising stiffly from the chair, and slip into the repaired attire. Relief…I have little of it to speak of, save the feeling I garner when this soft fabric meets my waiting flesh. "Quite the opposite, I think. I must bore _you_ to death."

She grins. "You're delusional, my handsome friend."

I feel the feeble stirrings of a flush in my face, and head toward the door. "And you're a savior."

I believe it, too, when I step back into the glare of the twin blazes, fixed in the flawless, pale blue sky. 

I lift the robe around my head, and start the trek back to where I now find myself in residence, gripping with thankfulness to my home. 

And push the thought from my head, the thought that could consume me if I allowed it.

Would he want me to hold steadfast to this relic, of another era and life, now?

Would he want _me_ to survive?

There is no answer. There cannot be. 

I revel in the shadow cast by the cowl, hiding my face from the world. Maybe the eyes, from their protective hills of fabric and sash, can't see me as well this way.

But the sand is not so blind. It hits me with the same power, sullying my skin, leaving trails of blood and grit in its wake. 


	2. That Lonely Field

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**Thanks to those that reviewed. ;) I really appreciate it. -LuvEwan

That Lonely Field

By LuvEwan

PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing. 

Summary: An intimate witness reflects on the shrouded soul of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Companion piece to 'An Everlasting Shelter'.

(_) - (_) - (_)

The sound of the door shutting feels hollow, so far from me it's almost surreal, a fabricated echo, and I stand in the same spot, mid-step, staring at the dusty thing, as if at any moment it will be revealed as a cruel hoax.

And he'll be here again, the cloak gone from around his shoulders, the heaviness shed like shadow chased away by dawning light.

He'll be here. For the first time…wholly, completely.

His body, with its grace and coppery skin, has stood within this hovel often. In that way, he's been a frequent guest, sitting in a rickety chair or waiting on his feet, his back mere inches from brushing against the wall. But it never touches.

Just as when I lay my hand on his shoulder, and I search with desperate, unmoving fingers, only to discover, as I always do, that it's quite impossible to feel a ghost's form.

I see it, clear and strong before me, with shining eyes and feathery hair.

Yet--it's a mirage, a memory that cannot fade, a spirit doomed to faux existence. 

He's the din of the closing door. I can detect him, but he falls in the blurred chasm between reality and oblivion--for he was a man of sentience, once, someone who did more than function…a soldier among his troop.

Now he's cast from whatever compatriots he had, wandering in the sunburned landscape of his own battlefield, weapon near and helmet secured.

The blaster wound bleeds slowly, continuously. 

And gods I want to know who pressed their finger down on the trigger.

Sometimes I think I have an idea, pausing in my sewing, gazing beyond the crumbled brick constraints of the shop. 

But…But if he wielded the weapon, if he alone imbedded the bullet…why would he choose to let it fester…instead of…

I blink. Hard. So hard there's a brief flash of pain beneath my lids, and I weave my arms together, walking back to my desk. 

There's a goodly sized pile of work there to greet me; my hands flex almost involuntarily, predicting the ache that will surface when I'm forced to quit for the night.

Then I'll lay in my bed, in the room connected to this one, and curl my fingers in, then out. I'll repeat it over and over until I slip off to sleep. 

The pain will still be there. 

I don't know if it ever becomes manageable. Stars, I can't say it's ever even tolerable. 

It's there.

And that's the most I _can_ say.

I fish through the stack, looking for a fairly simple fix-up to start with. My hands smooth along the fabric surfaces, the coarse, the worn…

I think of that drape of reddish-brown, so soft and--

How old does a woman have to be before her mind stops veering off course like some giggling, half-wit schoolgirl? 

I blink--again, for god's sake!--and realize my eyes were unfocused.

It's a habit of his, too, so I guess flights of fancy aren't limited to any specific gender--though I'm betting his thoughts are nowhere near related to mine. 

I've lived on Tatooine from the day of my birth. Certainly there've been changes around the place since then. More Hutts have slithered in, with their parade of followers, the greedy nitwits and brainless, bodyguard muscle, a steady stream of fresh flesh in the slave market upped the illegal activity (and profits), but some things are set in stone:

The suns are blisteringly hot…very similar to the look in a man's eyes when he's taken by lust. 

Yes, I've been a resident of this lovely planet from day one, and have walked the same streets as….I don't want to count how many junkies, criminals and dealers, of every kind. 

I know what that distinct gleam is. Depending on the man, it can be dark, a pool of black , a sample of terror to come…

Or, it can be gentle, a glittering projection of their heart. 

The former, of course, is mostly what I've encountered. 

Neither are what I've found when I glimpse in the eyes of Ben Kenobi. They're blue, beautiful blue, sparked with green, on a canvas of gray. Breathtaking, and that's putting it lightly. I could fill up pages trying to describe them. But I don't have the time…and if I want to overcome this…_infatuation_, it's in my best interests not to anyway. 

We've held each other's attention before, a moment passing between us when words aren't spoken, and I allow him to see the extent of my care.

But I'll never receive reciprocation. It's not that those eyes are insipid, the 'pretty but lifeless' problem of the emotionally detached. I discover realms of feeling in his gaze. It's just that none of it belongs to me, or is inspired by me. 

There's a sinking in my chest each time I remind myself, identical to the slouching lump there now. 

Tatooine isn't his homeworld. That much I could tell as soon as I saw his face. Not exactly pale, but flushed with pink, as though he were lost and deeply ashamed by it. 

Standing in the doorframe, wrapped in a dark, voluminous cloak that billowed over his arms and concealed much of his countenance, I wondered if he was being pinned there by some unseen force.

It was as close as I've ever been to witnessing true timidity. His lips were pursed and his chin puffed out a bit with the captured air.

I was behind my desk, as usual. His entrance surprised me (not something easily accomplished) and I felt the needle prick my finger. No blood-after awhile, the pads become tough like callused leather-but there was a fleeting instance of pain.

I prefer it when a visitor knocks, so I can gather what's out of sorts, but he was an outsider. How was he to know the ways here? He'd learn quickly-that was a given.

I set my work aside while the words were all but wrenched from his mouth.

"Are you…the seamstress?"

I smiled and gestured loosely at my stitching. "How could y'tell?"

He smiled, but there was very little mirth in it. His posture was effortlessly regal, more like he was on the golden threshold of a palace rather than a hot, stuffy, makeshift shop.

My first instinct would have been distrust, but there wasn't a trace of haughtiness in him. I might've been a queen, or say, a bedraggled seamstress, his demeanor wouldn't alter in either case.

I suddenly felt chagrined for leaving him there, almost floundering in the half-glare of the sun. "Come in. There's, um, no air circulator, so you might want t' take that off." I pointed to the robe.

He moved lithely into the room. "Actually," He cleared his throat, "I needed it to be mended."

"Oh. Well then, you'll definitely have to take it off."

This time, I earned a soft chuckle from him, and I was stupefied by the mellifluous notes contained in such a simple reaction. His voice was cultured, a dulcet tone that convinced me he didn't belong among the turmoil and poverty here.

I stood and started toward him, a figure dressed in tan leggings, a layer of deep brown at his neck and a thick, sandy tunic covering the rest, banded at the waist by a wide, brown belt. The clothes hinted at a pleasant form with subtle definition, but my eyes couldn't linger too long. I waited for him to remove the cloak.

I think it would've been less painful if he were having a limb amputated.

A wince crossed over his shaded features, bordering on imperceptible. He withdrew the cowl--

And I saw a face that matched the quiet, natural dignity of his form. His eyes were…well, they were just as elusive to definition then as they are today. Bags were beneath them, but told more of weariness than age. His brows were heavy, and in the separating space was a thin, deep crease. His nose was a favorable length, not too long or stunted, solid and spread wide at the end. A trim moustache bristled over his top lip, leading down to a short beard. His bottom lip was cupped by a pronounced chin, which was covered in groomed auburn strands. His hair was parted a little severely to the right, the front piece falling across his high, rounded forehead. Faint whips of gray were invading the ginger color, pale around his ears and patches of his jaw. 

I smirked inwardly, thinking that my gray appeared at the roots first. Before being doused by a semi-permanent dye, that is. 

Still, despite the evident maturity and exhaustion in that face, I saw…I don't know, something very young then. 

And I learned it was the vulnerable tremble of the soldier surviving his first hours tramping that lonely field.

I took the cloak, the helmet, in my hands. "Okay, where's the damage?"

He cleared his throat for the second time, as if it weren't accustomed to long strings of speech and had settled already into a dry dormancy. "Uh, the hood. It was ripped on this side…"

And he showed me with slender ivory fingers the tear that breached half the cowl from the cloak, frayed at the unnatural ends. "There." He added, softly. 

I scanned the laceration, pleased to find no material was missing. It would be a clean repair, and I told him so, looking up a considerable length at his face. He wasn't especially tall, but _I'm_ especially short. Just the same, it wasn't too much of a strain on my neck--and I could gaze well into the rain-washed eyes. 

He folded his hands behind him. "Thank you…I'm glad it won't be too much trouble."

I smiled, exhaling, a faint, happy sound escaping with the breath. Usually, one wouldn't think of such meager small talk as a source of elation. "No trouble at all…"

"Um, Ben." He responded to my indirect probe. "Ben Kenobi."

I held out my hand, an exact opposite of his, tan and coarse, with very deep lines at the knuckles and bends of the fingers. 

Mine was warm, his cold, as he slipped it against my palm, as our fingers entwined for that brief second. 

In that fleeting pulse of time, I grinned, slightly unsure whether or not the heat in my face was caused by the sizzling Tatooine temperature. "I'm Tirrah."

His expression was patience, waiting for what he presumed to be next, what would finish our little traversal from strangers to acquaintances. 

It was then, when I knew that I couldn't satisfy him with an answer, that I was also quite certain the sun couldn't possibly be to blame for the blood beating in my face. "I just go by Tirrah." I explained with a gust of nervous laughter. "It's simpler that way. Heck, I don't think I even remember the rest of it."

He smiled, glints of light catching in his eyes. "Then forget about Kenobi. I'll just go by Ben, if that's alright."

And I thought in that instance that no one in their right mind could forget Kenobi _or_ Ben. "Okay, Ben, I'll get started on your robe."

I walked to my desk, wanting to feel those eyes on me (what did I say about foolish old women?) and chose a fairly new needle from my tidy line-up, beside the spools and beaten thimbles. 

I wasn't given enough time to sit before he was bounding toward me, frenzied, grabbing the robe. 

I backed up a few steps, flabbergasted. "What's---"

"I'm sorry." He breathed, and had the demeanor of someone breaking up through the waves after a minute too long underneath them. (You don't need to leave the desert to understand what drowning is. Not really). "I'm sorry, I thought I could…"

My stomach was tight, cold and churning. Was his exterior an expertly-created disguise, concealing a crazed pervert, a flesh trader, a lunatic who got his kicks by startling lonely seamstresses…"What?"

He pressed his lips together, his eyes sealing, then opening. I could see the panic draining slowly from them. "I can't. I can't let it be mended yet. I'm…." Another clearing of the throat. "I'm, um, not sure I want it to be."

Inexplicably, my muscles began to relax, as he regained his crisp composure, that unique cast of a man standing unbiased in a palace or a shack. "It _won't_ be any trouble at all, Ben. And I've never wrecked a stitch of fabric yet."

His fingers curled around the robe. "No, it isn't that. I was told you were wonderful…I believe it…But I…" He shook his head, and I took a step closer, afraid he would fall dead away to the ground. "This might not be worth it…Not worth mending, I mean."

And I didn't question him, though the inquiries were leaping and multiplying through my mind. 

He brought the cloak around his body, disappearing into its folds and draping the hood over his head. Buckling the strap of his battered helmet. "I think I should go. I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you, Tirrah."

Early into our relationship, Ben Kenobi knew how to lift my heart--then drag it down again. All without being aware of it. I smiled, my mouth closed. "Not at all, Ben." And maybe my disappointment trickled into my voice then. "I hope you decide to keep it. It's really a lovely cloak."

He sketched a shallow, thoroughly charming bow. "It was good to meet you, Tirrah."

And he was departing, going to the door. I followed, my heart pounding and vibrating in every space it could. "If you _do _keep it, I'd be more than happy to mend it."

"Thank you." He said, glancing down before meeting my eyes. "I might…"

The words trailed off, left stillborn in the resulting silence when he closed the door behind him, floating in a void, in the strange falsity of sound that would occur, that always occurs, whenever he leaves. 

I found my way back to my desk…

And stared for awhile past the dirt-caked walls, even beyond the stale nothingness that was the norm around here...

Looking deep, as I am now. 

Today, he relinquished that robe, if even for just a moment. 

I always thought, when he would stop in to have a torn tunic repaired, or something along those lines, that the cloak was the thing that held him down, that slumped his shoulders slightly, sheathed his face in shadow, prevented the light from hitting him totally.

Now…in the past few minutes, I realized that the soldier must have his helmet, _must_ if he is to wade through the tall grasses and thick bogs, with all the hidden, foreign dangers. But it can only protect so much. The blaster bolts can sink into the belly, the neck--the heart. 

Still, if the solider has any hope for survival, he wears that helmet.

He doesn't take it off, _can't_ take it off…

I take a needle between my fingers, thinking of those war stories of the men, living by day and dying by night, wishing for the next stray bullet to kiss their skin--but never speaking a word of it.

I finish my day's tasks, then collapse in the lumpy center of my bed. Ben Kenobi is certainly oblivious of what he can do to my heart, the jump and the plummet…

He is unaware that, tonight, there is no jump.

Maybe there will never be one again. 


End file.
